The son stopped speaking to me after I remarried
«No! I said no! Do you hear me? Were not changing a single thing. Father built that porch with his own hands, hammered every nail himself.»
«Christopher, please understandits rotting away!» Margaret sighed, pressing the phone to her ear until it ached. «The floorboards are giving way, the roof leaks. Its dangerous! Victor says we could carefully dismantle it and»
«Victor! That Victor of yours again!» Her sons voice turned rough as sandpaper. «Whats it to him? Hed tear everything down and start freshsomeone elses memories mean nothing to him. Mum, its not just a porchits *his* memory!»
«Chris, love, what good is memory if it collapses on us?» Her voice trembled. «Were doing this for youso you and Emily can visit, so your children might play there someday»
«There wont *be* any children on your new porch!» Christopher cut in. «I wont set foot in that cottage again if you so much as touch a plank. Ive got to go.»
The dial tone felt like a verdict. Margaret lowered the phone to the kitchen table. The hollow ache in her chest, familiar now after months of silence, tightened around her ribs. Through the window, yellowed birch leaves trembled, and the world seemed as grey and weary as her heart.
Victor appeared in the doorway, tall and silver-haired, reading glasses perched on his nose, a book open in his hands. One glance at her face told him everything.
«Again?» he asked quietly, setting the book aside.
She nodded, words failing her. He crossed the room, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and the warmth of himthe scent of his aftershave, something uniquely *his*finally loosened her tears. Silent, steady, soaking into his checked flannel shirt.
«Oh, Maggie, love» He stroked her hair. «You shouldnt have called. You know how it ends.»
«But the cottage» she hiccuped. «Hell never forgive us if we change it. But we *have* toits falling apart.»
«Blast the cottage,» Victor murmured. «Well manage. *You* matter. Look what youre doing to yourself.»
Theyd met two years ago at a school reunion. Margaret had gone reluctantly, persuaded by her friend Louise. Ten years had passed since John, her first husband, died, and all that time, shed lived only for Christopher. School, university, his first jobshe hadnt noticed the years slipping by, the wrinkles deepening, her awkward boy becoming a man.
Then he moved out. Found a flat with his girlfriend Emily, and the house fell silent. Evenings pressed on her ears like a weight. Shed tried yoga, took up knitting, reread every book on the shelf. But the loneliness remained.
At the reunion, Victor had approached herher quiet, unremarkable classmate whod sat at the back of the room. Now a confident man, a mathematics professor. A widower, too. Theyd talked all evening. Discovered shared loves: old films, autumn walks, the simple ache of missing warmth.
Their romance unfolded slowly. Walks, theatre trips, long conversations in a café by the park. Margaret felt her heart thawing, life returning to her.
Shed told Christopher when things grew serious. To her surprise, hed seemed unfazed.
«Mum, youre a grown woman,» hed said, stirring sugar into his tea. «If he makes you happy, Im glad.»
Shed been overjoyed. A year later, she and Victor married quietlyjust Louise and her husband, Victors sister, and Christopher with Emily.
That day, everything soured. Christopher brooded through the reception, barely speaking, pointedly ignoring Victor. When toasts were called, he raised his glass, eyes fixed on the wall.
«To Dad. A real man. The best father. No one could ever replace him.»
The room stiffened. Emily tugged his sleeve, whispering urgently, but he shook her off. Margarets cheeks burned. Victor squeezed her hand under the tablethe only thing holding her together.
After the wedding, Christopher stopped calling. Entirely. At first, she told herself he was busy. She rang him instead. Stilted conversations: «Hello, love, how are you?» *»Fine.»* «Anything new?» *»Not much.»* «Fancy dinner this weekend? Ill make your favourite treacle tart.» *»Dunno. Maybe. Probably busy.»*
Then he stopped answering. Texts went unread. Her birthday was the final blow. Shed cooked his favourite meal, waited like she had when he was small. He never came. Didnt even call. Just sent a bouquet with a generic card: *Happy Birthday*. No note.
That night, she first confessed her pain to Victor.
«I dont understand,» she whispered on the sofa, firelight flickering. «He *said* he was happy for me. What went wrong?»
«Hes jealous,» Victor said gently. «Of your new life. Of me. Hes guarding his fathers memory.»
«But thats foolish! No one replaces John! I loved himhes Christophers *father*! But hes been gone ten years! Dont I deserve happiness?»
«You do,» Victor said firmly. «Hell see that in time.»
But time passed, and nothing changed. The wall between mother and son grew thicker. Margaret lost weight, slept poorly. Every phone ring sent her heart leapingalways someone else.
The cottage argument was another blow. John had built it himself, poured his soul into it. After his death, she and Christopher spent summers thereevery tree, every nail tied to his father. Now Victors suggestion to repair the crumbling porch felt like sacrilege.
«Should I go to him?» she asked Victor, pulling away. «Talk properlynot over the phone.»
«I dont think thats wise,» he said. «Hes too raw. Give him space.»
She obeyed, but the weight remained. Days later, Louise called.
«Maggie! Whyve you gone quiet? Everything alright?»
«Not really,» Margaret sighed.
«Christopher again?»
She recounted the latest. Louise clicked her tongue.
«Selfish boy. Throws a tantrum because his mothers happy. Disgraceful!»
«Louise, donthe adored his father. Hes grieving.»
«So were you! But life *goes on*! You spent ten years raising him alone, and now youve found a good mana *patient* manhe sulks? Another bloke wouldve told you to sort your son out yourself!»
«Victor would never say that.»
«Wait all you like,» Louise huffed. «Have you spoken to Emily? Maybe she can talk sense into him.»
Margaret considered it. Shed always got on well with Emily. Hands shaking, she dialled.
«Margaret? Hello!» Emilys voice was bright but wary.
«Emily, lovesorry to bother you. Is everything alright?»
Silence. Then a quiet sigh.
«Hes struggling. He thinks youve betrayed his fathers memory. That you replaced him too quickly.»
«*Quickly?*» The word cut deep. «Ten years is *quick*? Emily, I slept with his photo for *years*! I raised Christopher alone! Does wanting to *live* make me a traitor?»
«I *know*,» Emily said desperately. «I tell him the same! We argue constantly. Hes stuck in the pastkeeps Dads photo on his desk, just stares at it. I dont think hell move on until he faces it.»
The call left Margaret raw. That night, she studied an old framed photo: John, young and grinning, arm around her, little Christopher beside him with a fishing rod. A lifetime ago.
«John,» she whispered, «speak to him. *Please*.»
Christophers birthday approached. Twenty-eight. Margaret saw her chance. She baked his favourite honey cake, bought an expensive jumper hed once admired.
«Are you sure?» Victor asked, watching her pack the cake.
«Im his mother,» she said firmly.
His rented flat felt colder than the December air. She knocked. Silence. Knocked again. The door stayed shut. Thenfaint vibrations. His phone was *ringing inside*. He was *there*, choosing not to answer.
Forehead against the door, she whispered, «Chris please. I brought cake. Your favourite»
No reply.
She wept on a bench outside, ignoring passersby. Humiliated. Broken.
At home, Victor took the cake from her, held her close.
«Enough,» he said firmly. «No more begging. Youve done all you can. Live for *us* now.»
She tried. Stopped calling. Stopped waiting. They took trips, saw friends. She smiled, laughedbut every phone chime still stole her breath.
Winter deepened. Before New Years, she cracked.
«Emily? Sorry to bother you. Any plans for the holidays? Fancy dinner?»
«Sorry, Margaretwere visiting my parents.»
«I see.» A pause. «How is he?»
«Fine. Working.»
«Tell him Never mind. Happy New Year.»
Victor held her. «Lets go to the cottage. Light the fire, trim the tree. Just us.»
The cottage greeted them with snow and silence. But soon, firelight warmed the rooms. They decorated a small tree, made roast dinner, drank champagne. At midnight, Margaret wished for one thing: *Let him forgive me.*
Weeks passed. She learned to carry the ache.
Then, one evening, an unknown number flashed on her phone.
«Hello?»
«Margaret? Its Emily.» Her voice wavered.
«Emily? Whats wrong?»
«Weve split up.»
«*What?* Why?»
«I cant do it anymore. Hes shut downangry, distant. I tried *so hard* to understand. Today, I packed my things. He didnt even stop me.»
«Where will you go?»
«A friends. Margaret its not *you*. Its *him*. Hes drowning in ghosts. Until he faces them, hell never be happy.»
The call left Margaret reeling. She pitied Emily, feared for her sonalone now, locked in his pain.
Victor listened, then said quietly, «Go to him.»
«He wont open the door.»
«He will now. Hes hit bottom. He needs his mothernot as judge, just *Mum*. Dont leave until you talk.»
Next day, she stood at his door again, a pot of hot chicken soup in hand. Knocked. Silence. Knocked again.
Footsteps. A chain slid back.
The door cracked open. One bloodshot eye met hers. He looked hollowunshaven, shadows under his eyes.
«Mum?» A rasp.
«Its me, love.»
He stared. Then unhooked the chain.
The flat smelled of stale air and loneliness. She set the soup down.
«You need to eat.»
He leaned in the doorway. «Why are you here?»
«Emily called.»
He flinched. «So she tattled.»
«She *worries*. So do I.»
She reached for him. He recoiled.
«Dont.»
«Chris, *talk* to me,» she begged. «What did I do wrong? Why hate me for living?»
«I dont *hate* you,» he muttered, turning away. «I just dont understand. How you moved on.»
«*Moved on?*» The words stung. «Chris, I grieved for *ten years*! Raised you alone! I just wanted to *live*not just exist. Is that a crime?»
«And Dad?» His voice cracked. «You just *replaced* him.»
«*No one* replaced him!» Her shout startled even her. «Hell always be in my heart! But I *love* Victor! He saved me from lonelinessgave me back my life! Cant you *want* me happy?»
«I *cant*!» he roared. «When I see you twolaughing, holding handsit feels like *betrayal*! Dad built that cottage for *us*! Now some *stranger*»
«Hes not a stranger! Hes my *husband*!»
They stood, chests heaving, divided by grief.
«I thought after Dad died, it was *us*,» he whispered. «That wed cling to each other. But you found someone else. Left me alone.»
And suddenly, she understood. He wasnt jealous. He was *terrified*. Afraid her new love would erase him too.
She pulled him close, her own tears wetting his unkempt hair.
«My foolish boy,» she murmured. «No one could *ever* take your place. Youre my *son*.»
He stiffenedthen crumpled against her, sobbing like a child.
They talked late into the night. She ladled soup; he ate silently as she spoke of her loneliness, her fears, how Victor had brought light back.
At the door, he finally spoke.
«Mum Im sorry.»
«Me too, love.»
She knew it was only the beginning. Acceptance would take time. But the wall had crumbled. Her son had come back to her.
